


Da capo al fine

by Rhysbees



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Not Beta Read, References to Addiction, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide, Vent Writing, description of hypothermia, i hadn’t seen a fic involving the implications of the lunar portal, maxwil is not plot relevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27722105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhysbees/pseuds/Rhysbees
Summary: It’s cold. Howling winds scream as they tear across the flat expanses of the constant, but their roars are drowned out by the timpanic thundering resounding in Maxwell’s head as he rushes out of camp. It’s time.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Kudos: 22





	Da capo al fine

It’s _cold_.

Howling winds scream as they tear across the flat expanses of the constant, but their roars are drowned out by the timpanic thundering resounding in Maxwell’s head as he rushes out of camp. It’s time. He’s shivering, wearing nothing but a threadbare suit. He has nothing with him except for a lantern and a bundle cached away in his pockets. He has no spear, no logs, no thermal stone - he won’t be needing them anymore. 

Wolfgang sits at the fire, keeping the night watch, and it is oh so easy for Maxwell to hide his lantern in his jacket, melt into the shadows, and slink out behind his tent. Wilson murmurs as Maxwell extricates himself from his grasp, but he goes back to sleep as the other man mutters something about having to piss. The noises of his departure are masked by the sounds of the wind, and his small form is enveloped in the wall of falling snow. His footsteps are quickly covered as well - he has left no trace. By the time Wilson wakes in the night, alone, there is nothing pointing to where Maxwell has gone. There is nothing to do but wait until morning. 

It’s cold. The wind quickly cuts into him and his teeth begin to chatter violently - a sharp, clattering snare to the bassy reverberation of the blood in his ears. He moves quickly; he needs to make it to his destination before the inevitable. He would have taken a thermal stone, but he knows that he has already pushed it by taking a lantern - only grabbed because the wind howls so viscously and threatens to extinguish any unfortunate torches. He cannot take any more. It’s not his place. It’s never his place to take. It never will be. He shifts the lantern from his hand to his arm, the handle swinging from his elbow as he crosses his arms and jams his hands into his armpits. 

The shivering has stopped, and he feels the cold less and less as he walks. There is a screaming in his head. It needs to be tonight. The weight of the Knowledge mixes with the churning of his sins in his gut - rotting and fermenting and putrefying him from the inside out. His breath fogs out in front of him, but is quickly blown away by the swift winds. It’s an unforgiving night, and he is so glad of it. It makes everything so much easier. It will hurt less this way. The icy snow crunches under his feet, his worn oxfords soaked through now - though he doesn’t feel it. He can’t feel his face anymore either. His teeth have stopped clattering. He’s glad. He is also so very glad for the snow - it allows him to be hidden, allows him to slip away from camp unnoticed, but he wishes that he could see the moon. 

The moon here has always been so intriguing. Even from its creation it had felt... different. It had all been void and ash before. And he had made things that he remembered, mostly. But the moon was different. Like the ruins, he had been pulled - like a violin following a conductor’s beat - but the moon’s creation was different even from the ruins themselves. The Them had not liked the moon. It disrupted things. It changed things. Its light pushed back the darkness and with it Charlie. Things had always been different with the moon. 

This had all come to head with the discovery of a mysterious orb. Maxwell was always sent off to gather resources for winter - his shadow clones being invaluable to speedy gathering. He had the misfortune to be caught in a meteor field on that day. He remembers dodging the projectiles and, in the aftermath, finding a large stone. It called to him. It rang in his soul - familiar oh so familiar. It begged him to pick up his violin and play one more song. Just one more. It promised that this was the final movement - the final act. What did he have to lose? 

He hid the object. It was easy. He already had a separate camp away from the others. He didn’t need to be a drain on their resources after all. He didn’t need them to see him in the throes of self-inflicted madness cutting down beast after beast in pursuit of a substance they so much abhorred. They didn’t need to see him imbibing it - shaping it - losing himself in it. They didn’t need see him carve lines in his flesh and watch fuel bubble up. They didn’t need to see. It was all for their own good. As it was, they hated what little they saw. They hated his reliance on dark magic - however useful it was to them. They never acknowledged that he didn’t need to eat as much as the others. They didn’t care where he was getting his sustenance as long as it didn’t involve them. No, it was easy to hide this away too, even from Wilson. They had an arrangement. They knew the other needed time apart. They understood each other. And Maxwell knew that Wilson would understand this too. 

Finally, he reaches the postern. Its eye looks harshly at him, its shimmering light running down the gateway like the blade of a guillotine. The roses rustle in the wind - vibrant in all seasons. He chokes on the smell. Withdrawing the bundle, he throws the first part at the portal, delighting as the judging eye is forcibly blocked away - cloying roses covered as ropes and canvasses lash onto it - expertly done up by invisible hand. He places the moon-rocks next. Then the moonlens. His movements are clumsy. He can’t feel his hands. He sets down the lantern. He feels a frantic feeling in his chest - a sense of mounting mania - he begins to laugh. The comedy is almost over. It’s time. It’s the final cadence. It’s so cold. He takes out the final item. The idol stares back at him. He feels freer than he’s ever felt. Timpani crash in his ears one last time. He puts the key into the portal and _turns_. He feels himself burning up. He’s crumbling to dust at the throne again - but this time by his own hand. He’s dying - he’s dying and it’s _beautiful_. He sees the moon through the snow. 

Maxwell leaves the constant. 

**Author's Note:**

> The winter wears and tears our bones. I want to catch my death of cold. - Chris Garneau


End file.
